


The Embodiment of All Which We Fear

by Chellodello



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras has to pee on all the nice things that he could have, M/M, pretend this fits in the canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:17:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chellodello/pseuds/Chellodello
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's not mad, just disappointed.<br/>Or;<br/>Enjolras faces the all too terrifying idea that France is a lot more like Grantaire than it is like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Embodiment of All Which We Fear

There are times when he can not stomach to look at Grantaire.

Enjolras is the face of revolution, the embodiment of France itself, as Combeferre was fond of teasing.  He did good work, the most valiant of work; he rallied men to demand more out of life than tyrannical rule. Grantaire was nothing in comparison.

He was a mouse of a man; who stood for nothing but would contradict him at every turn if given the chance. He accomplished nothing of value. As long as there was wine to wet his tongue he could subsist forever undeterred by the lack of moral conviction in himself and in the world.  

The leader of the amis knew this about him and still he felt the sting of betrayal when he had failed to speak at the Barrière du Maine It was ridiculousness to think him capable of otherwise. His inability to carry out the simplest of tasks only proved what he always knew.

Grantaire was poison, interjecting with just enough sense to make the amis doubt their goal, but never enough as to shatter their hope completely.

Enjolras wasn’t sure what idea was more unsettling: Grantaire having the capacity of thought that could dispel his best weaving of patria or the possibility that Grantaire simply didn’t act on this capacity, for his sake.

It was said that the only way to survive a viper bite was to suck out all the poison, but if Grantaire be poison then the venom was already too ingrained in his blood to not be fatal.

“Dear Apollo, why such a sullen face?  Your  _revolution_  is strong why not grace us mere mortals with the sun of your smile?”  Enjolras raises his gaze from his untouched glass to the subject of his musings.

Even on the eve of their greatest victory, or ultimate defeat, Grantaire is much as he has ever been;  only half sober with a grin plastered to his otherwise acceptable face.  He is as Enjolras fears he will always be; a man half realized, so much potential, a brilliant mind, wasted on wine and impossible pinning’s.

 “With no thanks in part to you.”

He does not need to look at him to know that he is frowning, eyebrows furrowed over too blue eyes.  It is an expression he is all too used to. Hurt, disguised as indignation.

“I assisted in the building of the barricade.”

Enjolras grits his teeth. “Let us all rejoice that the great R has seen fit to bring a chair to assist in the liberation of Paris. How proud I am.”

He meets his own gaze dead on. “I would do more if you’d only allow it.”

“And disillusion more than you already have with your cynicism? You are a plague upon the minds of Paris, unfit to even playact a part in her salvation.”

Grantaire opens his mouth, to refute, but closes it as he second guesses his actions. Perhaps he is more sober than he once thought, as his expression morphs into something resembling shame. Enjolras looks away, he cannot bare to see what self-loathing lingers in the depth of his gaze.

 “Is it not telling enough to put forth the effort even in the face of ones assured short comings?”

This is why the failure of the Barrière du Maine caused him so much pain; it brought to mind a comparison that could not be unthought-of.

Because the longer he looks the more and more he is aware that just maybe it is Grantaire that is the embodiment of France and not him.

That like Grantaire, France is its own worst enemy.

Grantaire  _had_  tried: Convinced him that he understood the rhetoric of the revolution even if he did not believe it, he had dressed the part, he had done his best to please him with his actions. And he could not do it.

Something in him would not allow more than the briefest moment of success, wither it be nerves or the lack of faith in his own ability and worth, it did not matter. Grantaire could never live up to the potential Enjolras saw in him.

It is his deepest fear that France will always be much the same: Trying to become better but doomed to always fall short, to disappoint him with its inability to be all that he knew it could become. The history of France, like the life of Grantaire, was a series of tiny victories and sweeping setbacks and it breaks his heart.

“Enjolras?”

He looks back at his almost-friend at last and sees nothing but the very real end that this revolution can take; that he will be let down by what will come.

“Bother someone else with the ramblings of a drunk man, I haven’t the time nor the desire to indulge you all of your uncountable short comings.”

His words are needlessly harsh, for Enjolras knows that no one was a harsher judge of Grantaire than Grantaire himself, but he is unable to quell them from being spoken.

With a glare he slams his drink down, rises to his feet and retreats to the Barricade, without looking back.


End file.
